The first day, 8^th April 2013 was more of fanfare, with media houses like NTA covering the kick start of the Creative Writing workshop organized by Exodus for art Group hosted in the Golden Gate Hotel, Zone 5 Abuja. No, I wasn’t there due logistics and all but I was present for the subsequent days. Oyindamola Affinih, TV script-writer and author of Two gone, still counting was the first instructor and she gave the participants short-story home work to be submitted the next day though.

Tunji Ajibade President of the organization animatedly began the next day of the workshop by orientating us on what the ‘Exodus for Art’ organization was about in the compact sized room of the hotel. He gave us a background of what the NGO hopes to achieve and it was nothing short of inspiring. Asides provision and facilitation of workshops, he mentioned Residencies, Literary Prizes and Book/Author promotions and publishing credits, things which appealed to us and persuaded us to take writing seriously.

Once the instructor, Miss Oyindamola Affinih started her lecture, we immediately found ourselves enthralled by her intellect and diction. Before her no-nonsense persona was projected, she had already earned our respect; this woman knew what she was talking about. After a critique session where she made the participants from the previous day read their short stories, a break was observed.

Once break was over, the instructor told us to listen to each student’s work and give criticism. She gave room for each participant to critique the other’s work because when they get published, their work will be critiqued. Her literary exercises were tough for some participants, though it brought out the best in them. She stressed the importance of a remarkable beginning for our works as if the first lines are not attractive enough, the reader and publisher will dismiss it.

Tunji Ajibade was the instructor the next day, starting off by asking participants what they learned from the first day up until that point. After receiving positive response, he asked participants what challenges they faced in writing. After offering helpful advice, participants read their work to for general criticism and the general faux pas was ‘flowery language’ or ‘cumbersome words’. He informed us that the beauty of a work didn’t lie in ‘big words’ but simplicity of language the writer successfully used to pass across his message. He also warned against ‘telling’ stories and encouraged the participants to ‘show’ stories instead, allowing the readers the joy of deciphering the writer’s intent. He gave the basic rules for writing short stories, the last being…know when to break the rules.

Estrella Gada, award-winning poet took the baton on the third day and broke segregation amidst us through innovative games for a better learning environment. She went on to give what one participant called ‘literary rehabilitation session’ dispelling all myths inexperienced writers had, myths like ‘writers are supposed to be lonely secluded people’. In persuading us to read as much as we could especially now that we were young, she made a statement ‘My Father said I would have time to read when I grow older and finished school…he lied.’

On the fifth and final day of the workshop, she stressed the importance of submitting write-ups to online magazines and the responsibility of a writer to influence his/her environment positively before giving us our final writing exercise. The reading session revealed that we really let the things we’d learned sink in.

Tunji Ajibade ended the training session with a vote of thanks to everyone for coming, and encouraged us to come for a Literary Event/Lecture at Merit House, Maitama.

While at Merit house…

I was rather surprised at the number of dignitaries that turned up for the event, the hall was literally full. It was conducted under the distinguished Chairmanship of Hakeem Belo-Osagie (Chairman Etisalat) and the guest lecturer was Eugenia Abu. The waiters were efficient though, flitting through the room like fairies. El-Rufai was the epitome of hospitality himself, standing up from the leather cushion to seat on a plastic chair when the high-table ran out of seats to everyone’s surprise and amusement.

Tuni Ajigbade was called to give a brief background of the workshop which he aptly did. Exodus for Art, he stated, believed that literature had brought the nation so much respect that it should exit one of the major constraints confronting it in the country, which is the dearth of adequate structures that drive the art of creative writing and consistently empower a new generation of writers. The Yasmin El-Rufai creative Writing workshops were one of such structures, created in the memory of late Yasmin El-Rufai, a budding writer before her death. He concluded by craving the indulgence of guests, that a minute of silence be observed in her memory.

After that, the Chairman of the occasion, Hakeem Belo-Osagie gave an opening remark. While he warned that he was never good at literature due to the complexity of poetic language, he regaled us with two lines of a poem he loved so much due to their simplicity;

It was on a winter morning, when I saw her

then it began to feel like summer.

He observed that literature was something was to be taken seriously as it dealt with the way people feel. Before the thunderous applause, he invited Eugenia Abu, the guest lecture to the podium.

Eugenia Abu was invited to deliver her lecture, a point in the program which I must say, was the most anticipated.

And she delivered.

She started gracefully on personal tales that drew the entire populace of the room in, tales of staying up late in the night just to get a word that will complete a body of written work and how confused her husband was when she first scribbled him a love poem. Her topic was ‘The Role of Literature for National Development’ so she defined literature and its various genres before proceeding. Every writer in the hall related with her when she said ‘Every writer that has a book in him will not rest until he or she has given birth to it.’

She went on to stress her point, by definition ‘History is elevated, creative non-fiction. It is the story of who we are, and if we don’t know who we are we are unlikely to become.’ Half way through the lecture, guests where already clapping. She talked about how literature could abate ethnic clashes. ‘Literature about a place sheds light about its people and lets you find respect for them. Cyprian Ekwensi wrote beautiful stories about the north, even though he wasn’t a northerner. Chinua Achebe showed us Igbo land. Reading their works will teach you to respect the culture of the people they wrote about. People only respect themselves when they know about themselves.’

She talked about the entertainment quality of literature, emphasizing on how reading Amos Tutuola’s the palmwine drunkard transported her into a new world. She said Literature, like football, was a source of Nigerian pride. When a Nigerian won a literary prize it made her feel proud of her country. If it happened while she was in another country and people there asked her if she knew the prize winner, she would smile and say yes!

She finished her lecture with a poem dedicated to Yasmine which garnered her 3 minutes standing ovation.

The maiden edition of the Abuja review, a literary newspaper was introduced to the guests, before certificates were presented to workshop participants. Yasmin’s loved ones came to the stage to say a few things about her, which touched the guests. Then some of us participants were chosen to share our experience at the workshop. The Chairman gave the closing remarks and the event was ended with the National Anthem.

I can’t remember singing the Anthem with such enthusiasm as I did that evening, knowing that my country had began to take steps towards encouraging African literature. The thing about this kind of gathering is that it encourages you as a literary young person that you are not alone. You are not the only one who knows how refreshing a steady stream of inspiration can be or how daunting, as Eugenia Abu said, it could be to search hours on end for just a word to make your work complete. You feel you have just taken a closer, deliberate step towards becoming the writer you had always hoped you would be.

Nestled comfortably in her posh velvet couch, Tope leafed through her teenage diary in reminiscence and content. She had been pampered and therefore happy every moment of her exuberant life by her super-rich parents, bribed teachers, favor-seeking friends and finally, her puppet of a husband.

Her doting parents had taught her early in life that with money, literarily everything and everyone was at her beck and call. But even though she manipulated Robert (her husband) with the dexterity of an accomplished puppeteer at home and social events with the aid of money, she loved him with jealous, crude, barbaric and intense passion that made him untouchable and undesirable by any other female. She surprised her parents by agreeing to be his housewife (an idea she originally perpetuated), turning down the prestigious seat waiting for her in her father’s company. She had even agreed to carry his baby despite her parent’s suggestions of a hiring a surrogate-mother. Maternity was clearly a task too cumbersome for their only child.

But she did it all for the sake of love, or so she told her friends. They in turn were concerned for her, the few that really cared anyway. It was too good to be true, they tried to tell her as politely as possible- not that she wasn’t adorable, but to get a 26 year old man at 32 with her bulky frame…Well that sort of love existed only in…well fiction; something shifty was at hand. But she shunned all manner of negative opinions. It wasn’t long before other ladies started seeing what she saw in her husband. But then they also saw, or forced to see her dark side hadn’t they? Ever since she married him, she’d been watching him like a hawk in the sky with her minions of bodyguards her father ran surplus on.

Should any female at the Anande & Odumosu Detective consultancy firm engage in a private discussion with her beloved, her ‘bulldogs’ were sure to give a warning. All this happened without Robert’s notice. He never knew that the glances his female staff stole from him weren’t of admiration, but of dread. If the gold wedding ring didn’t chain him to her for eternity, the baby in her womb did. Their marriage wasn’t just a commitment, it was milestone suspended down his neck…

The door creaked open downstairs, snapping her out of her reverie. She had been so lost in thought that she didn’t notice his car drive into the compound.

She glided down the stairs into the parlor (living room as Robert insisted) to his suited 6 foot tall frame, grimly planted at the doorpost, looking like he’d entered the wrong house.

“Welcome darling” she crooned, searching his face

No answer. Something was wrong.

As if she was invisible, he walked past her into the house, pausing wistfully in the ‘living room’ before going to the master bedroom upstairs, leaving her dumb-founded. Rambled thoughts ravaged her brain. Had he found the truth? No, not likely. Not if the family doctor valued his life and career.

The baby kicked inside her and she really had to respond to nature’s call, a condition that had become even more frequent with the advent of her pregnancy.

10 minutes later found her persuading her husband to eat something, while his eyes remained transfixed on the wall TV.

“I’ll make chips for you before I start cooking” she offered

“No” he replied distractedly.

“But you will eat won’t you?” she bit her nails nervously. She wasn’t used to being neglected. “I can make your favorite-goat leg pepper soup”

“No Tope” he grunted in a weary monotone.

A cold chill began to creep up the staircase of her spine.

She was fidgeting self-consciously on her favorite couch now. “I’m getting fat, isn’t it?”

“Okay let’s talk” he turned off the TV and turned to face her square in the eye. It occurred to her that after 4 years of marriage, she was really seeing her husband for the first time. “I don’t love you” he tersely began.

He never did and that was why their marriage wasn’t working. It wasn’t even a marriage; it was slavery, slavery to a fat, spoilt, snivel of a mistress who arranged for females who chatted with him to be beaten up. He had started the relationship hoping he would fall in love with her, but who could fall in love with her? She was a bully and he’d allowed himself to be blinded by money. Yes money was the foundation of their relationship; it was hunger for money that had driven him into her matronly arms 4 years ago. He graduated and couldn’t find a job, and then she came along. What was he supposed to have done?

Right now, he was still young, handsome and everything his secondary school sweetheart wanted. So he was leaving. Besides the thing she carried in her womb wasn’t his, as far as his consciousness was concerned anyway. He had gotten the necessary evidence from their family doctor, including the sedative/sexual stimulant drug she had used on him- Rohypnol it was called.

He paused with an accusatory glare to gauge her reaction. There was none. She was shell shocked- a silent hysterical plea in her eyes begging him to stop. But he didn’t. He went on and on, shattering her marbled heart into a million pieces.

He was suing her to court for drugging and molesting him, and with his agency’s prestige and reputation, no amount of family connection or money would be able to breach justice.

With that, he stood up and flew up the flight of stairs again to his room upstairs, smashing the door behind him with a resounding clap that jolted her out of shock on her beloved velvet couch.

I’m dreaming…she thought. It was all false; it couldn’t be happening. Perhaps she was reacting to those anti-natal pills she had been taking.

But somewhere in her heart of hearts, she knew it was real. Robert Anande, her husband was leaving her.

“No!” she shrilled abruptly, startling herself with the pitch of her voice. It echoed throughout the elegantly furnished building she had come to call home and it was the desperate cry of a deranged woman…a woman whose life had gotten out of control.

But control was something her parents her mentored her in early in life, her dad with money, her mom with wit. They had not wasted all those years bringing her up for nothing; she was not going to let anything in her life get out of control.

She started humming to herself a Yoruba lullaby her mother sang as she stood up from the chair and walked into the kitchen in the next room. The freezer was stocked with assorted meats from beef to mutton, but her hand went to the last shelve, the one with the frozen goat-leg. She had promised him his favorite, and he was getting nothing less.

Then wielding it in her hand, still wrapped in its paper foil, she marched out into the parlor up the stairs to the master bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, but she could see his tall frame looking out the window at the far end of the room into the streets below.

She didn’t know what she was doing up until this point. Yet when it came to her, she didn’t shrink back in horror, she embraced it. In 5 brisk steps, she walked up to him and in the same breath, swung the goat leg at the back of his head with all the brute strength that came with her bulky frame. Had she been seconds late, she would have missed as he was about turning to see who had joined him in the room. With a bewildered look on his handsome face, he crashed sideways to the expensive mahogany floor.

Back in the kitchen, she used the butcher’s knife to disassemble the meat before setting it on a slow boil. Then she rushed upstairs to her pink bedroom and had a quick bath. She paused at the mirror to check her countenance after the shower.

Perfectly normal…

She toweled her hair and glanced at the pink wall clock behind her to check the time. 6:50pm

It surprised her for a second that in the rush of her activities, she hadn’t thought about what had happened an hour and a half ago.

She dressed up, picked her shopping bag and slipped out the gate.

Across the street was her favorite shop where kitchen necessities were sold.

“Bimbo dear, how are you?” she asked the exuberant teenage sales girl who had too much life and vigor for her scrawny frame.

“Fine ma, what do you want to buy?”

“Curry… do you have Ghanaian pepper?” when the girl bobbed her head, she continued “good, nutmeg powder and seasoning cubes”

“Hmm…its like your husband is in soup today oh!” the girl chirped flitting from one stand to another in the shop, picking the things Tope had ordered.

Tope smiled, the girl hadn’t the slightest idea how close she was to the truth. “Goat leg pepper soup”

“I knew it!” Bimbo shrilled triumphantly, punching a bony fist in the air, the other setting the cooking stuff into her shopping bag.

30 minutes later in the house, a delicious concoction was sizzling in the kitchen while Tope punched the number of her husband’s detective consultancy firm, but no one answered. Damn her stupidity, why should anyone? It was past office hours!

She dialed the hotline of their housing estate security and wait to exchange any pleasantries… “Somebody help, my husband is dead!” she cried the litany over and over again on the phone until police officers flooded into her house. She was well known in the police force, not just because of her father who frequently hired them as guards but also because of her husband who ran a detective firm.

The wailing came easily; she had after all been his wife for 4years.

“My men are inspecting the house.” The Sergeant assured her. “Just answer the questions that young man over there…” he gestured behind him “has to ask…” she nodded.

The Sergeant, a burly impressionably figure of justice stood up and turned to the young officer in question. “Livingstone!”

“Yes sir!”

“Interrogate her”

“Yes sir”

The Sergeant turned to another young officer, obviously a rookie. “Rotimi!”

“Sir” the short guy stood at attention and saluted.

The Sergeant sighed wearily “This is not the army!” He yelled.

“Sorry sir” the young lass apologized stupidly.

“Call the hospital!”

“Yes sir!”

An hour later, the resident doctor at the hospital confirmed him dead. He had in fact probably died the moment the weapon collided with his head and cracked his skull. The most intriguing thing about it, according to the doctor, was that Robert Anande must have seen the identity of his killer before dying. It was just a suspicion, but a strong one anyway. His head was frozen dead in a half turn to the direction the impact had come from, he had probably intended to see who had joined him in the bedroom. Telling from the look on his face, his effort hadn’t been in vain. The terror etched in his furrowed eyebrows, wrinkled forehead and dismayed mouth said it was the last person he had expected.

“How long have you been married?” asked Livingstone, the officer who had been ordered to question her.

“Four years” was her quivered reply.

“Go over the story again”

Robert had come back fro work, so she rushed to the shop at the other side of the road to get some spices for dinner. After putting everything in the pot, she rushed to her husband’s room with a stinging pang of premonition. And there it was- her dead husband on the mahogany floor of his bedroom.

She exploded into and another fit of tears…

Every man in the room ached for her. The rich, helpless mammoth had been lucky to get a husband the first time, after this event they weren’t so sure.

“The soup will be ready by now” she announced, wiping her eyes and trying to be brave. “And there is no one to eat it, do you all mind?”

“No, thank you”

“Nah, it would be wrong”

“Thanks madam, but we done chop for office”

They all deemed it morally wrong to eat the meal that was meant for the dead man.

But none of them knew he’d already gotten the raw lion share…

“Let me drop it from the gas before it gets burnt” she said, standing up to her feet and leaving them for the kitchen.

A 4 minute silence ensued.

“That woman is still in shock…” the Doctor said in a cautious whisper. “Activity is the only thing keeping her together. I’ll indulge her if I were you” he advised with wizened hawk eyes, narrowed to each man for emphasis.

“It’s getting late” the Sergeant insisted, checking his wristwatch. “…and we still need to check the house”

“Not after you’ve all tasted the pepper-soup” she said in a sing-song voice, carrying a large tray with the number of bowls for each person in the room. She staggered a bit under the weight and Rotimi found himself at her rescue. It was his undoing for once the aroma wafted into his nose, he was dazed. “Robert would have loved you to”

“Please Mrs. Anande…” stammered the Sergeant uncomfortably.

“I know your men must be hungry after a long day of work. Come over” she urged them to the dinning table.

The sergeant held his ground even though his men helplessly joined her until the doctor caught his eye. “Just a little” he relented.

That moment, the door bell chimed, momentarily waving off the spell her pepper-soup had cast on them. It harshly awakened them to the reality that they where at a crime scene, not a Christmas dinner.

“Don’t worry, it’s my parents” she assured sweetly, marching her matronly figure into the parlor to the door. “You men can start eating, there’s a bowl for everybody…”

Once she was out of earshot, the men began a conspiratorial banter with their heads dipped in their steaming pepper-soup laden bowls.

“This woman sabi cook eh!” remarked the Rotimi, reaching for a toothpick.

“Make una no worry, we go find de killa.” jabbered Livingstone, with his stuffed mouth pounding the meat in his mouth with the efficiency of an industrial jaw crusher, at the same time darting out his tongue to trap the trickles of soup that escaped the onslaught of his mouth.

“You could start by identifying the weapon his attacker used” the doctor suggested. Among them all, only he ate his meal with some sense of decency. The sergeant wondered if it came with the profession.

Rotimi was not on planet earth anymore. Some how, his hands can gotten involved leaving his ladle to lay idle on the table. “Maybe the thing…” munch…munch… “dey unda…”munch…munch.. “…the grave”

“Not so officer.” Said the Sergeant, surprised at how much he was enjoying the meal. “It’s right under our noses”

The others grunted in accord…

“It was around 12:45am, a guy rushed in and was screaming that the radio station was on fire. The person to operate the fire truck wasn’t around, so another student drove it to the station which had just exploded into gulfs of fire. None of us could operate the fire hose so we just kept on pouring water on the flames with our buckets till to 3. By then nothing of value was left.”

-Tom Doro, 400level Electrical & Electronics Engineering.

“When I passed the area on my way to class that morning, I realized the area was terribly hot. Then I turned to the building to find it charred and blackened. It was sad…just sad.”

-name withheld

“I don’t know what to feel, I don’t really listen to radio stations, I spend more time on the internet.”

-Adeniji Monseru, Civil Engineering.

“I wasn’t really a huge fan, but I feel it’s a huge loss. I particularly liked their newscasting and sometimes wished I could join them. Anyway, I hope the Government does something about because it was serving the school well.”

-Felicia Onyinyechi, 500level, Electrical & Electronics.

“It’s a great loss, a very big loss.”

-Okwudili Nebeolisa, 2012 Asian Poetry Winner,

300level Chemical Engineering.

“We don’t really know the cause, our lecturer told us about it. It’s tragic and I’m not happy about it. We thank God no life was lost.”

-Daniel Agweje, 200level Information & Media Technology.

 “It really is sad, I mean, it shows we don’t have provision for such emergencies. If the authority had installed automated fire-extinguishers, even if no one was around, they would be triggered at the first sign of fire. Its just unfortunate that such a thing happened just weeks after the station won its rightful award as the best campus radio in Nigeria.”

-Zainab Ibrahim, former Search FM staff,

500level Quantity Surveying.

“I really wish them quick recovery, because this is a setback. I know they would rise strong again.”

-Chinyere Akosa, 300level Geography.

“Seriously I’m speechless, I don’t know how the fire started…how did it start sef?”

-Lekan Mesele 400level Mechanical Engineering.

“Equipment was lost…equipment the transistor alone should be about 8million Naira.”

-Femi Afroze, ex-student of FutMinna,

General Manager, 1Mol Media.

“We will rise again like a phoenix from tongues of fire, in a few weeks we will resume transmission at Bosso Campus while we get a new location in the permanent campus.”

-Student Staff of Search FM

(Name withheld).

When Nolito stepped up to take the corner kick, little did the world know that a number of records were about to be broken. The game had been goalless up until that point, and as the ball swung into the box, the players readied to get their heads to it. But as is often the case, it was that man Ronaldo who met it with his head, and the ball glanced past the dazed keeper and into the net.
Players were jubilant, it was a goal.
Something was wrong though, the goal scorer was missing in the celebrations; infact, he just stood looking shocked on the spot. He had put the ball in the net for the wrong team. How come?
Of course, we have players score own goals every once in a while, but not Cristiano Ronaldo. No. Not the same winger and striker who is arguably one of the finest goal scorers to grace football pitches ever.
Before kick off, even before the moment in which it happened, it was hardly imaginable. I probably would have frowned at anyone who hinted at its possibility. But then, it happened… It happened.
It was the first own goal of Cristiano’s professional career. And it gifted Granada their first win over Real Madrid CF in 41 years.
This just goes to confirm how much our world is one in which the possibilities are endless. Our reaction and response to events and happenings go a long way to determine how the rest of our lives plays out.
Whether, or how Ronaldo would bounce back from this, we’ll find out with time. Of course, he’s the same 27 year old who has scored 33 goals already in 2012/2013 building on the 60 he scored in 2011/2012. The same Portuguese who was voted the best player on the planet once (in 2008), and has been voted second on four occasions (2007,2009,2011,2012). He definitely can. He turned 28 some three days after that match, and so it happened at a good time when he’ll most likely be reviewing his life and planning for the new year.
From us at Aspire, we say ‘Happy birthday Ronaldo, all the best in the new year’
Soar…

Two years ago, a boy in Japan sold a kidney to get the latest Apple ipad. At the beginning of this year, another boy, probably inspired by the previous one’s bravado sold his for Samsung galaxy tab. A few months ago, I was tempted to sell at least two pints of my blood once I learnt a pint of my blood group cost N5000…

To other people, depending on regions of residence, none of these might seem to be a big deal, in fact it is commonplace in the USA for a man to wring out his privates for spermatozoa in a fertility bank every month in other to pay rent at an average rate of $85/ejaculation. Indian women shave off their long lustrous locks to put food on their family table. Dying men are submitting their bodies daily to the blood-thirsty blades of science for the benefit of their loved ones. What is happening!

It seems we humans are now fattening and grooming ourselves for slaughter, we have become lambs, cows and broilers, because we want to live better lives. But in the end however, who really gains out of the bargain? Who enjoys that ‘better life’ we paid for with our lives after we are dead?

Definitely not us though, because the man who sells his sperm to the fertility bank only to shelter himself and produce more sperm to sell for another day; the Indian woman who sells her hair only does so to buy food that will nourish it for future purchase…Yet everything on earth now seems to have a price; it goes on and on…love, loyalty, values…just about anything for money. If in this century living body parts are for sale then breathing air could hit the shelves in the nearest future!

Lets gets things in perspective here; money was made as a currency for man and not the other way round. Before you rush to sell your next pint of blood, genuinely ask yourself if the habit you are about to cultivate is a healthy one, I’m not just talking about physical health now because I’m sure your buyers would have gotten that covered, but mental health. Because you won’t stop there, you’ve be living for the next pint, the next shave, the next harvest…It will turn you to a junkie of sorts.

There really are other ways to survive than sell ourselves. We should check our values and re-prioritize our lives before we wake up one morning to realize that the body we’ve been trying to cater for was sold long time ago.

Emmanuel has spent six years at home after his secondary education seeking for admission into the university. Not like he’s got no brains and all that, but the challenge he was faced with was his financial background. As a matter of fact, he could only afford to write jamb after his fourth year at home of which he scored 273 and secured an admission to study computer engineering which he deferred twice! The third time, God smiled on him as his uncle came to help out with his tuition.

His dad, a poor farmer has been saving quite hard to see his son through his B.Eng degree. Emma himself has been actively involved in the saving process. Whenever farm work was on recession, he went to town to wash cars and thus grow his personal savings. His mum is a petty trader whose income had been channeled towards reinforcing the family’s stomach and was barely enough. After his secondary education, his dad even asked him to drop his fantasy of furthering his education and face reality by learning a ‘hand work’ so as to keep body and soul together, but he didn’t think it was the best idea, saying it wouldn’t be worth it for him to kill his dreams of becoming a computer engineer simply because of money, concluding that whatever it takes, he wasn’t going to give up and they both reached a compromise and decided to work it out together.

After his first semester on campus, he figured out the necessity of him having a laptop to aid his learning process. He asked his colleagues how he could acquire one at a relatively cheap price even if it’s a fairly used one (second-hand) but he was advised to just get a new one to serve him better, for buying a second-hand one is equivalent to gambling. On getting home during the break, he tabled the issue to his dad who immediately asked how much it would cost. Emma informed his that it was about eighty thousand naira to get a good one. Some days later, his dad confessed that it wasn’t possible for them to secure one at the time being unless they started to build extra savings which may take time. He agreed to this and went back to school. That was the last break he ever came home since it was about 596 kilometres from school.

Whenever school was on recession, he would join this construction daily pay workers and struggle, just to see to the fulfilment of his dream. He toiled and laboured continuously and managed to save up to sixty thousand naira after his third year. During the first semester of his fourth year, his dad called him up on a Monday morning, inquiring on the progress he’s been making with his savings. He gave his dad the latest figure who was quite impressed and promised to send him something the next day. Emma was receiving his afternoon lectures on Tuesday when he got a credit alert message on his mobile. He opened it and to his amazement, his dad sent him forty five thousand naira. This meant he would be having extra bucks after securing his new asset. He was visibly shivering not as a result of a low temperature, and the lecture which had about eighty five more minutes was ‘pragmatically’ finished in his eyes for the only contribution he gave was just to sit and stare like a seat filler. On getting to the hostel, one of his roommates who had seen him leave that morning without breakfast prepared some rice with beans and stew with the presumption that Emma would faint if nothing was done for he was flat broke, having only salt and dry pepper in his locker. “Emmy come chow!” said Musa, and to his surprise, Emma turned down the offer, saying he didn’t feel like eating. “Guy wetin happen? Na because of you I even arrange this chow, i even put obstacle (fish) inside”. After much persuasion, Emma managed to eat a little and climbed his bed. He couldn’t sleep that night, was just thanking God for answered prayers and calculating how to ‘permutate’ this money to cover his needs.

The next morning, ignoring his 3 unit course, Emma rushed to town to make his new purchase. After securing it with a back pack and some foodstuffs, he came back to the hostel smiling and rejoicing at his latest achievement and there was plenty of food for all his roommates that evening after which he called his dad to inform him of the latest development. His dad then asked how much he got it. “Eighty two” he replied. Thank God said his father and added, “Emma, please be careful with that computer, you know how we struggled to get it”. “Yes sir” Emma signed concordance. Two days later which was Thursday, Emma went to fellowship and shared his testimony with the brethren. “No wonder” said one of his colleagues, “he’s been all smiles this week.”

On saturday, Emma went to take his bath before proceeding to the classroom where he planned to install the necessary software he would need to help his career. God’s willing he thought; before the end of 500 level, all that I’ve lost since 100 level would be covered up. On coming back from the bathroom, he met his locker open even though the key was in his hand. He took a closer look, the laptop was gone! He fainted.

He regained consciousness twenty minutes later by the help of other students who had been sprinkling water on him. Wetin happen? They asked, and all Emma could do was cry. In the evening when he was alone, he started thinking of all he had gone through to get this laptop, toiling for over three years! And everything wiped out in a flash. If it was a dream, he would like to wake up from it. If not, what was he going to tell his dad? To cut the long story short, Emma fell sick and was hospitalized for two weeks after which he died of hypertension. His dad, on getting the news of the demise of his son, his hope, suffered a heart attack and died. The mum, went mad leaving his two younger siblings with no one to look after them.

The message is this, you that derive joy or fun or whatever in stealing what belongs to others, have you ever had the time to even stop and think of how what you’re planning to steal ever came about? Do you even realise you may just be sending someone to the grave? Do you know how many tears would flow because of your selfish act? If you happened to be in Emma’s shoes and this thing happened to you, how are you going to take it? Do to others as you would have them do unto you.That which you envy did not just erupt by magic. If someone was able to justifiably get it, you too can. It only takes determination and patience.

If you’re touched by this message, please share to as many people as you can and may God reward you as you do so.
God bless Nigeria!

It is interesting that the gifts of creativity and expression are not reserved for the old and wise, not in these days anyway. It seems art has decided to speak for itself no matter how young it’s medium may be…it must be heard…seen…felt…

This I believe is no coincidence, it seems pure art has no representative in the older generation anymore; everyone is too busy trying to use it for all sorts of selfish, bigoted purposes imaginable. An Uncle of mine who is a Historical writer was called to the North during the festive season, to come resolve a fiery intra-ethnic war with his pen. It turned out the chief who called him had plundered a clan of lower social class than his and thus the ‘bush men’ surprised them by retaliating. In a nutshell, a report of the incident was required and the Chief needed my Uncle to ‘refine’ the report in favor of his clan, at a handsome fee of course.

Hungry musicians have resorted to praise-singing and sculptors seem to be concocting more gothic nonsense in our era than any other in the name of ‘abstraction’. Not that I don’t cherish abstractionism in art, I just wish that it served a purpose. I once asked a colleague what his work meant and he replied; ‘to be successful these days, your work has to be open so that each person can find his own meaning, and buy it.” And this is the sad reality of our world today. As an artist in these times, you now have to sing what people want to listen to, write want they want to read…in essence, you are not allowed to have any message nor identity. If you don’t sing dancehall music or write torrid romance scenes, you just might starve with your family.

If you feel too young then tell that to Quvenzhané Wallis, the 9 year old Black American actress who recently won over 25 awards for the 2012 movie, beasts of the southern wild, breaking the record for the youngest actress to ever be nominated for an Oscar. Or Chibundu Onuzo the prestigious Nigeria born writer who came to critical acclaim with her debut novel, the spider king’s daughter.

It is prerogative that we the young ones realize and develop ourselves now, before black and white fades to grey and other things take the place of truth, justice and purity for we don’t have liabilities; we don’t have families to feed or favors owed to men of power yet, so we are free. Free to fight for what we believe in not with weapons of war, but with our voices, our pens and our hands. The peak of our youth would be the strongest days of our lives, so let’s fight now, for we are young.

Are you a writer? Are you interested in the world around you? Do you want your voice to be heard by others? If so, the Commonwealth Essay Competition is definitely for you. We encourage you to be creative in your response to our topics. You can submit a poem, letter, article, story, essay or even a short play. The choice is yours. Just get writing!

Every year, the Commonwealth Essay Competition inspires thousands of young writers from all over the world. Run by the Royal Commonwealth Society since 1883, it is the world’s oldest and largest schools’ international writing competition. Past winners include Mr Lee Hsien Loong, the Prime Minister of Singapore and Elspeth Huxley.

The competition is free to enter and in 2012 over 1,000 young writers, from 245 schools, in 38 countries across the Commonwealth received an award for their entry.

For 2013, we’re delighted to announce that the Competition will be run in partnership with Cambridge University Press, whose support will enable us to engage even more young writers across the Commonwealth.

The Competition celebrates and nurtures the creative talents of young people across the Commonwealth, providing a platform for students to compete with their peers in each of the 54 nations which make up this unique association. Entrants are judged in two age groups, Junior (under 14 years) and Senior (14-18 years).

The closing date is 1st May 2013 and results will be announced in the autumn of next year, when a Junior and Senior Prize Winner and Runner Up will be announced and our judges will make a number of Gold, Silver and Bronze Awards. We very much hope your school will feature!

For more details download the 2013 Essay Competition leaflet here  .

To download the 2013 Essay Competition poster click here  .

Entrants will be able to submit their essays online from the start of 2013.

The theme (Nigerian Literature, Conflict and National Unity) was enough to attract the literary and politically inclined from all nook and cranny of Niger State and invited guests from the rest of the country, though I strongly believe the better part of the attendees that filled the majestic Kutigi hall fell into the latter category, judging from the disinterest of the crowd during the discuss sessions.

Secondary school students, totally out of sync with the aim of the event idly chattered about how massive Professor Wole Soyinka’s hairdo was and what they where having for lunch. For hours, nothing but the riotous cacophony of a thousand jabbering mouths could be heard in the hall, not even when the impressionable Professor Wole took to the podium to give his lecture. It seemed the attendees whose mobile phone networks had been switched off (for security purposes) had resorted to their nearest neighbors for cheap conversation, anything to take their minds off the sheer boredom of listening to elderly wealthy men talk about literature and crisis.

One of the highpoints of the lecture was when the Professor grimly looked up beneath his spectacles at the crowd and bellowed, “I cannot hear myself speak!”  The chastising of course had the desired effect; the hall fell silent as he went on to talk about women as victims of torture and internet-rape. He quoted a popular phrase from Frantz Fannon’s the wretchedness of the earth; “the destiny of a people lies in their hands, it is their responsibility to either act, or let it act on them.” His lecture ended with a thunderous applause and frenzied chants by the Student Union Government of the Federal University of Technology Minna.

Of course, the hall resumed its banter once another speaker took the podium. Sycophants tweaked the high and mighty traditional rulers who had been led out of their council wards solely by duty to the colloquium. Elite literati reconnected with old acquaintances whom they hadn’t seen since the 1^st colloquium last year. Eventually, or rather mercifully to some, the discussion ended and the exiting personalities and rulers where regaled with praises from sycophants and rather mind-boggling acrobatics by the disabled, both seeking favor in alms and connections.

The book-fair was terrible; old dusted books which had little or no relevance to literature were in abundance. Books like collections of wise sayings by great men of old and children Bible stories lined the tables. Some prominent writers in attendance were of course disappointed to find their tables devoid of their works. At the end, the whole procession was led to the Cyprian Ekwensi Library which had been commissioned earlier in the day by Professor Wole Soyinka for the reception and writer’s parley.

The reception started off as a communion between intelligent minds of like passion, but ended in a disgracing brawl between the caterer and the Political sycophants; she had come prepared to serve responsible people, not soothsayers who came for the sole-purpose of obtaining favor and a stomach-full while at it. After a semblance of order had been restored, the parley began. Sadly, some ‘Hadjiya’s’ present where more interested in what pose to strike for the photographer than what the moderator had to say. The Parley was divided into 3 sections, the most interesting being ‘An inquisition on why poetry has lost form’.

One of the speakers blamed it on the new generation of writer’s negligence to the components of poetry some of which include; sound of words, rhythm, line calculations and imagery of concept. He concluded that it was senseless for someone to just wake up in the morning and scribble a few lines of rhyme and assume he had written a poem. Another speaker urged poets to revisit the art of poetry for poetry’s sake. She claimed one could hardly write without reading other peoples works. She reminded her listeners of martyres like Sahadu, (the first Northerner to school at Yabatech), whose works were so powerful that anyone caught reading it was locked in jail. As for form, she advised that the content of a poem eventually determined the form to be adopted. She concluded that to write a powerful poem, effective use of language, development of writing style and study of previous works was necessary.

Needless to say, the writer’s parley was the most intriguing aspect of the whole colloquium, save for the performances by some secondary schools and the powerful poem recitation in pidgin that received a standing ovation and thunderous applause.

All in all, the annual Mu’azu Babangida Aliyu National Literary Colloquium is one of its kind as it not only embraces people from all works of life, but also gives upcoming, unpublished writers like yours truly an opportunity to mingle among the elite literati who marvelously never fail to show up. Never mind that its inceptor insisted on fixing his initials (MBA)  or that it turned out to be yet another avenue for Local Political aspirants to secure favor, it is indeed an event to look forward to every year.